“did you think I wore this city without pain?”
-Adrienne Rich


it’s midnight.
i’m with you
in a ball
on a quarter of my side.
you’re taking up a quarter of
my half of the bed with your engulfing
speculation and a partially harbored
rage, marking pages you skimmed
to later find your place where you felt,
at the time at least,
some things are better left theorized
than openly in flames.

I’m investigating an inner stillness that dissolves when exposed
 and counting
(to ten, my sponsor said)
contusions around my throat.
you’re learning about economics
this week,
hyperbole & statistics;
which way my freckles move
depending on my
the likelihood of a temper tantrum over
soap scum on anything I scrubbed,
unloved refrigerator pictures circa 1995,
premature forgiveness when I’ve still got to
fuck the bitter out but
someone gave me two weeks of yoga passes
so I’m suppressing it in down dog and polite nods
on a borrowed mat on the other side of
I’m crooked but
I’m hiding my scoliosis  
in poses.

the amount of times my palms moved from open to
across your cheek and at what velocity;
how much of my useless back will face you tonight,
how long before one half of the bookshelf is cleared out,
how not to trust

                   you’re a poor investment, Sarah

anything that has to do with
simply put
(count the marks on my throat)
you already know
(inhaling without prompt)
about sharpness.
              (my Christmas tree is in a dumpster)
some things shouldn’t be touched
  ( I’m in child’s pose)

and you should:
never bet on
that talks.


“the economist”


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